Beggar in the Morning
by Sylla
Summary: Thorin likes to stare up at the night sky. Bilbo notices this, and can't help but ask why. [Pretty blatantly implied Bagginshield; more movie than book. Takes place right before Beorn's house.]


I don't usually write much any more, but this pairing just grabbed me and refuses to let go. Posting this at 4AM with literally no editing (so any mistakes are purely mine). As a side note, I like my Bagginshield with plenty of build-up, once a deep camaraderie has been established between them – so I suppose you can read it like that, if you like.

Enjoy!

* * *

_I'm a beggar in the morning_  
_I'm a king at night_  
_My belt is loose_  
_And my trigger is tight_

* * *

Things were, in the estimable Mister Baggins of Bag End's opinion, starting to look up. The Company had left the Misty Mountains looming threateningly behind them; the goblins were, if not an entirely _comfortable_ distance away, certainly not close enough to be pressing; and for the first time, they had caught sight of their goal. The Lonely Mountain. And, last but not least, Bilbo thought to himself, Thorin was alive and well.

Or, _mostly_ well. Bilbo still couldn't believe the run of good luck they'd had on that one, first escaping the Great Goblin's hordes and then the Pale Orc right after. And Gandalf had summoned eagles – _eagles_! Eagles who had carried them from the fire and into the morning, far away from orcs or stone giants or danger of any kind.

"All the same," Gandalf had said, "We had better press on, or they'll have caught up before you know it. Orcs are prone to do that, and orcs on wargs even more so."

They did not manage to make it very far that day, on account of Thorin's injuries, despite Dwalin and Gloin and some of the others taking turns to help him along. They camped that night beside a small stream, too tired to make conversation or do much more than eat and then sleep. Most of the Company had already drifted off (save Fíli and Kíli, who were the youngest and had volunteered to take watch), and Bilbo was about to do the same when a sudden sound jerked him back to wakefulness. He lifted his head in time to see Thorin's retreating back as he stepped out of the warm circle of firelight and into the darkness. A brief moment of deliberation followed, at the end of which Bilbo stood with a small groan – he had his fair share of bruises and bumps from the past few days' events – and followed the dwarf.

As it turned out, Thorin had not gone far beyond the light of the campfire, and was sat down on a fallen log, looking up at the stars glimmering in the night sky. Again Bilbo wondered if he shouldn't perhaps leave him alone – but after all that had happened, he knew he wouldn't rest easy with Thorin out on his own.

He walked over and lifted one leg over the log, and then the other, and made himself comfortable by the dwarf's side. "You know, I've heard sleep does wonders at healing wounds," he said by way of greeting. Thorin must have heard him approach, because his gaze didn't budge from the stars glittering high above.

"Then you should sleep," Thorin returned gruffly—but unlike just a few days ago, there was no malice behind the words. Bilbo swallowed a laugh, and for a moment a companionable silence stretched between them, as the fire sputtered and crackled and crickets chirped in the dark. Thorin's gaze still did not waver. Bilbo watched him out of the corner of his eye for a moment, a question reigned in at the tip of his tongue as he considered whether to ask it. At least he said:  
"What do you see up there?"

Now Thorin did turn to look at him, a slow and considering turn of the head that never failed to make Bilbo uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and said, "You're always looking up at the sky, so I was… wondering."

Thorin was quiet for so long that Bilbo began to suspect that this was, perhaps, a personal question and that he shouldn't have asked at all, when Thorin spoke.

"When I was a boy, younger than Fíli or Kíli," he said, "I would travel down to the mines, deep at the roots of the mountain. I was too young to go down and join the miners at their work – and at any rate, such work was not considered fitting for a prince. "So I would stand at the very edge of the abyss and watch as the miners went down." Thorin looked up again, gaze distant. "The chasms were lit up by strings of lanterns. They glowed brightly in the dark, hundreds of them. Thousands. They'd shine off the streams of gold and gems still in the rock, throwing back glints of light."

Bilbo sat in silence for a moment. Somehow this felt like something very private, and he felt oddly touched that Thorin had chosen to share it with him.

"It must have been very beautiful," he said quietly.

Thorin inclined his head. "Yes," he said simply. He turned slightly to look at Bilbo directly. "And you will see for yourself. I will show them to you, once the dragon is dead and Erebor is ours again."

Ah yes. The dragon. Bilbo wondered how he could have forgotten about it earlier in his fit of optimism. No, the worst was very likely _not_ behind them. In fact, the worst was quite likely even now slumbering on a bed of ill-gotten gold under the very mountain they were trying to reach, and… how had Bofur described it? _Think furnace, with wings_. Bilbo shuddered.

Thorin made a small sound. "You're cold," he said, hands quickly moving up to the collar of his coat. He started to shrug it off, not quite managing to conceal a wince of pain at the movement.

"No!" Bilbo said, more forcefully than he intended. He put a hand on Thorin's vambrace. "No. It's fine, really." Thorin stilled, but did not lower his hands. "Besides, you're still healing. You need to keep warm." He added, mock-serious: "It wouldn't be very kingly for the leader of our Company to succumb to a cold because he wouldn't keep warm, would it?"

Thorin snorted – and then all of a sudden there was a rushing sensation and Bilbo landed on his back with an "oof!", his field of vision full of twinkling stars. Thorin had pushed him! He propped himself back up on his elbows, spluttering with indignation; but with his legs still hooked over the log and the rest of him on the ground, he had some trouble getting any further than that. Thorin watched him struggle for a moment; then, to Bilbo's surprise, he ducked his head and laughed, quiet and low and rich. Bilbo was so struck it was all he could do stare. As Thorin twisted around and leaned back to offer him a hand, he gathered himself enough to say, "Oh, that's nice. Laugh at the poor, put-upon hobbit. I thought it was a leader's job to look after his followers, not push them over." He took the dwarf's hand, and Thorin hauled him up until he was sitting in his original place again.

"Yes," Thorin agreed. "But it's also my job to put my followers in their place when they give me cheek."

"Of course. A very serious duty." Bilbo paused as he realized something. "You know, I don't think I've ever heard you laugh before."

Thorin looked at him with an odd expression. Bilbo didn't know what it was, but something about that look made his throat feel dry. He swallowed. But then the look fled from Thorin's face as he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again his expression was pensive.

"Bilbo," he said suddenly.

"Yes?"

Thorin looked down, and then back up. "Have you thought about what you'll do, once our quest is over?"

"Assuming I haven't been mauled by a warg or trodden on by a dragon or cooked into a pie by a troll?" He smiled, but it turned wistful as he thought suddenly of Hobbiton, and Bag End. "I… I don't know," he said. "I suppose I'll go back to the Shire. Perhaps I'll write a book about our quest, though I don't suppose many will want to read about how I stumble my way through an adventure."

"You do not do yourself credit." Bilbo started slightly as a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned his head and found Thorin was looking at him.

"We owe you a great debt," the dwarf said softly. Then his other hand snuck up, past the lapels of Bilbo's coat, and came to rest at the side of his neck, fingertips just barely brushing the back. Then that hand began to pull Bilbo gently closer. He grew still, not daring to move, hardly daring to breathe as the sudden thought popped into his mind to him that maybe, _possibly_, Thorin was about to—

But Thorin merely rested his forehead against Bilbo's.

"You will always have a place amongst us, Bilbo Baggins, should you choose to stay," he exhaled. "Remember this."

Bilbo swallowed in a vain attempt to stop his throat from feeling so dry. "Um. Yes. I'll remember."

Thorin held him for a moment longer – his eyes were so blue it almost hurt – before abruptly letting go.

"You should get some sleep." He stood up and offered his hand to Bilbo; he smiled wryly and let Thorin pull him up, and together they made their way back to the camp.

"So should you. Just… promise me you won't charge any more mounted orcs."

"I make no such promises." Thorin glanced at him out of the corner of his eye.

"Ah. Well, then I suppose I had better stick around to the very end of this adventure, just in case."

Thorin snorted and gave him a light shove. "Impudent halfling." They reached the campsite, and Thorin retreated to the other side of the fire, shaking his head. "Good night, Master Baggins," the dwarf said in a tone that brooked no argument. Bilbo laughed softly and settled himself down next to a sleeping Bofur, feeling oddly lighthearted.

"Good night, Thorin Oakenshield." He murmured it, but he had no doubt Thorin had heard, even if he did not answer.

* * *

Ever notice how Thorin likes to stare majestically into the middle distance? Yeah. This fic grew from the idea that perhaps he was lost in memories of Erebor when he was young.

(This pairing will be the death of me.)

Anyway. Reviews and concrit appreciated, as always!


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